


One Week

by BubblegumCannibal



Series: Sins of the Stars [4]
Category: overwatch
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, experimental fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8408335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BubblegumCannibal/pseuds/BubblegumCannibal
Summary: The Dragon and the Gunslinger have spent some long weeks with each other and they are tired. They've seen the worse criminal lives can bring you and it has brought them something far more than a peace of mind.update: currently permanently discontinued from lack of interest due to fandom headcanon stigma... was gonna be rewritten to fit new lore but, here we are. :/





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> this is an experiment. the context of this fic is to pinpoint the important parts of their relationship that shaped them the most. the two of them only got a week’s time together when deadlock was their only way of seeing each other. these are those important weeks they spent with each other.

Gibraltar doesn’t quite look or feel like Gibraltar to the older members of Overwatch. Everything feels different here. With the grounds cleaned, the feeling of the facility simply feels refreshed with the sight of the new white walls and its comforting blue trim. The sight of it all is far more welcoming than the rustic barracks they were shoved into on a nightly basis, stuck on uncomfortable cots.

This was new.

This was Overwatch now.

Most of them remember what it was like to start off this young. A couple of them walked in with a fresh face while the others held the look of despair or exhaustion. At least this time, none of them were petty criminals looking to catch a break.

Listening to the kind remarks of the new agents greeting each other almost came as a blessing. Their voices were chipper and approachable. The younger crowd seemed to stick together, smiles big and bright as they laughed and joked. Shame it wouldn’t last this long… just wait until the first mission—granted one, maybe two of them within the group, had already seen their share of war.

One of them had her arms thrown around the neck of taller man, legs flailing free from the floor as he stood tall, arms wrapped tightly at her waist. A beautiful girl, short brown hair and big, brown doe eyes—oh, he’s missed her greatly.

“Y’ve grown up, sugarplum,” the cowboy spoke, voice low and muffled into her shoulder.

“And you still look absolutely ridiculous,” Lena couldn’t help but lean back and smile, still hoisted in the air.

“Yeah, yeah. Says the pilot in crocs.” He lowers her down to the floor with a little kiss to her temple and a smile, but as he pulls away, all he can smell is the lingering scent of her strong citrus perfume.

“Y’ see the new crowd, luv?”

McCree nods, thumbs hooking into his back pockets, “I’ve seen’em but I haven’t spoken to any of’em.”

Lena taps her foot and eyes the corner of the room, “Not even Genji’s brother? Truthfully, I forgot about him after… well, _y’ know._ ”

“His _what?_ ”

His head whipped up fast enough for his hat to shift on his head. He had spotted the cyborg when he arrived that morning, but Genji had never mentioned anything of his brother ever showing up to the headquarters. Honestly, he never mentioned anything of them ever speaking to each other again.

Pulling away from Lena, she grabbed at his arm and pulled him back with a frown, “Don’t go startin’ fights with him, now. We were told to forgive him--”

“Yeah… forgive him.”

There are the docks in Gibraltar that bring in the local trade and then there are the docks that bring in resources for Overwatch. Aside from that, it brings the sight of everything together—almost like an expensive post card. Yet there he stood, clad in black with a quiver and bow resting beside him. A couple of omnics silently gathered his bags beside him and marched somewhere into the depths of the main part of the facility leaving him alone of any sentient life. Felt familiar, honestly.

Jesse slows in his stride once he gets closer to the man, his silent, regal presence overwhelming him with the ponderous feeling of guilt. There used to be a feeling of kindness to him once upon a time ago—this had to have been his fault and it won’t sit right in his gut until he makes it better. It’s odd being this close to someone you thought you left behind years ago. The pain is still there, throbbing away in his chest.

Now at his side, McCree feels his throat dry and tongue metaphorically swell. What does he say? How does he say it?

_Keep your cool, Jesse McCree. You got this._

“Been too long, darlin’. Last I saw you I… I fucked up. I won’t lie to ya. I didja wrong and… I regret every moment of it.”

The man doesn’t respond, quiet, steel gaze falling to the water beneath the docks. Hanzo’s shoulders stiffen and his head raises just a smidgen as he inches a bit closer. A voice he's believed was dead and gone lay heavy in his chest. Just the sound of it raises hairs and angry memories smothered out by careless acts of Heavens-knows-what. “That almost sounds like an apology.”

“ ‘Cause it is.”

“So you claim.”

“Listen,” McCree began, “Things went south here just as it did then and I meant what I said—I was coming back for you… but every ending was dead. I thought you were literally… _gone._ ”

“Almost, Jesse. _Almost…_ ”


	2. The Beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now we take a step into the twilight zone--
> 
> okay the past.
> 
> ...yes. this is a double post. yes. shocker, i know.

_Month one - Week one - Day one._

Deadlock is a complete and utter disaster, but they pay so damn well.  Santiago was a man known for gathering allies. Sell a little here. Buy a little there and someone was bound to accept something out of him, even if they hated him and Shimada Sojiro wanted nothing to do with him. Alas, again the money was _great_ and he never had to physically meet the other man—that’s what he had sons for. To him, they needed the experience—why not go in his stead?

The drive from the airport to the city border was long, but beautiful. The desert sat beige with hints of orange and green. There were no street lights out here to guide one through the roads nor had there been any indication that they were anywhere _on_ a road for miles. Silent as it is awe inspiring. The truck kept an easy ride, no harsh bumps or dips to make things uncomfortable and gentle music playing from the front to keep the mind comforted. _‘Helps with the long drive,’_ is what the driver said when he got in.

However, Hanzo had not expected to arrive once nightfall came. Yet, he can’t complain, the stars are quite lovely out here. He’s curious to see how they look come dawn. Is it anything like the movies where the sky is rich with purples and blues with that sparkling flicker across the sky? Or is it just that pastel wash that warms the land?

Indeed, the eldest son is curious but it only comes in a brief moment before his thoughts quiet and he leans forward to peek out the front windshield. Their place of operations is vast, but not spectacular. There sat a warehouse a bit off from the inn (or _motel,_ rather—too filthy looking for an **_inn_** ) that they had pulled into. It sat brighter than the buildings that clustered around it and just as ugly as the rest of the buildings. Alas, this is what Hanzo had expected from the description of the man he was to meet.

The driver then sighed, putting the truck into park and glancing back at the young Yakuza leader with a press of his lips. He’s got a kind face, the driver does. Rounded and dark with a hint of a budding five o’clock shadow. “I want to be the first person to apologize for whatever happens in there. Nico is… erratic, but I’ve heard stories about your clan—don’t doubt you can’t shut him up if need be.” He chuckles and hands back a card with a number on it: _221._ “That’s yours. Your room is over to the right. Sorry it’s not one of those fancy hotel rooms. With all the money Nico spends on buying friendship, you’d think he’d spend some on his own people.”

Hanzo stays quiet, idly memorizing the look and feel of the key card before looking back to the driver, “Thank you… for the warnings that is.”

“You were going to need it.” He turns back around for a moment, rustling through the compartment of his armrest then letting it slam close on its own. Reaching back, he produced another card and smiled, “Don’t be afraid to give these guys whatfor. Stab one, if y’ need to, but please. Take my card. It’d be nice havin’ a familiar face you don’t want to strike drivin’ you around.”

“I will keep this on me,” there’s a pause and a soft mutter of the man’s name, “…Sani?”

“First try!” He’s still glistening with that smile, “Don’t go to the diner with anyone if they offer. I’m sure they are not… serving real animal meat in there. Go to the bar instead. They have a list of better foods in there. Stay safe, kiddo.”

* * *

 

It didn’t take him too long to settle into his room and make an immediate move to the bar. The entire place was something new to him. Bikers littered tables and booths paying no mind to the teenager in a black suit. He was completely opposite to them. Most of them sat with others around tables with beanies or large brimmed hats to hold their hair back and wore washed out jeans to work with the god-awful black leather vest. Whoever thought this outfit choice was the best needed to return it forthwith.

All he wanted was something small to eat and he’s been standing near the bar chastising the clothing of the people around him—seemed pretty silly, now that he thought about it. A little sigh and Hanzo has gathered his thoughts, his hand resting at the hilt of his sword in hopes that he could scope out a man he’s only seen in pictures before giving up for the night.

It just all sat bizarre to him, almost as if he had set foot onto an old western movie set. The hats were abnormally large and the accents were _thick,_ this was nothing like any other state he had been in (granted that hadn’t been very many). It shockingly smells _clean_ ; the tiled floors are neatly swept and mopped aside from a few scuffs here and there. The walls are shades of brown, almost as if the tavern had been rebuilt on one side in comparison to the others—there is age to this place, and apparently a story.

A story starting with the massive stag head on the wall with a pair of panties dangling from the antlers and probably ending with the brewery he’s noticed behind the building. He’d laugh to himself if he could; they look like people who’d distill their own liquor…

“Lookin’ a little lost there, sweetie?”

“Not lost, simply looking.”

“Name?” The lady from the bar even looked just as ridiculous, to him. Low-cut blue tank top to match the thick eyeliner and give the patrons just enough of an eyeful with that ugly vest to cover.

“Santiago.”

“Oh, my sweet summer child. _You’re_ the guest he’s waitin’ on? Ain’t you a bit young to call yourself a gang leader?”

“I can see the wrinkles on your face and the grays in your hair, but I’m not criticizing your casual flirtation with every younger man in the room, now am I?” There’s a little snort to her apparent frown and the subtle sound of giggling from the other ladies behind the bar, “All I want to know is where he is.”

“He ain’t here yet. You beat him by a ten minutes.” The sound of frustration is noticeable in her voice and he’s so tempted to press her, but for now, he’ll keep quiet. “You want something or are you going to stand here like an ass?”

“I am unsure if I can trust you with my food.”

She squints— “You can starve for all I care, kid.” –then rolls her eyes, “Furthest table in the back—left. He’ll be here soon.”

Time swept through and Hanzo found himself watching the crowds again. Some stared and others whispered, but he always knew what they were saying from beginning to end. A man in the booth across from him is worried his wife might leave him, assumes he’s been having an affair with another biker within the group— ‘ _Mickey,_ ’ he said, ‘ _fat bastard was never trustworthy._ ’ At the table between them, the group of them sat far too curious about him personally. Too young to be a gang leader— _he not apart of a **gang**. _ Probably can’t understand English— _he’s fluent._

Their nosy questions make him uncomfortable, but the fat, white fingers sliding down the sheathe of his sword is even worse. With discomfort, steel hues focus on the way those fingers attempt to memorize the little intricacies of his blades design, grazing the case back and forth before gripping it entirely. Not a second was wasted before he grips the arm of the man planning to lift it, his phone clattering to the wood table and reaching for the short knife that sat on his thigh. It may not be everyone’s choice of weaponry, but heads will roll if anyone in this room believes they can just _touch_ his belongings… especially his sword.

With honesty he should have never taken the driver’s words with any weight, however, Hanzo is a man of action over words—because an angry, jagged knife jetting out of a limb (or internals if the case needed to be elevated) says a lot more than what he can. Not in town a night (or an _hour_ with that fact) and Hanzo has already allowed his anger to bubble away at him and rip through (or _into,_ rather) someone without hesitation. The larger man gave a stunted yelp once Hanzo gripped his collar and yanked him down to face him.

**_“Do not.”_ **

—Not another word and he’s pulled the small knife from the man’s hand and watched as he staggers back, stuck to the table, pale eyes bulging and mouth wide with silent gasps. Had he been surprised on the sudden pin?  This would help teach a forceful lesson on keeping one’s hands to themselves, yet no one is probably going to take the idea of losing some nerves in their hands in order to grab something else. Instead, he rips the short knife back and listens to the big man stumble with a few swears and low hums of pain. But the sudden shuffle of feet, the whispers of those who came to collect the older man, some reaching for the knives at their boots, had the young dragon spinning on his heels to catch whatever the other planned to dish out, yet nothing came. Instead it was another man, taller than him, no vest and a red black plaid shirt. He had ducked under the first swing, hat toppling to the floor as the older man swung for him. Shoving the man back, he barked out a frustrated “ _Get back!_ ” before turning to face the young leader.

“You good?”

“I did not need your help.”

The man smiles, slightly crooked with his tongue between his teeth, “From how that just looked, y’ might’ve needed a second pair of hands.” He takes a moment to pick his hat from the floor, dusting whatever off from the wide brim and brought the gaudy brown thing to his chest, “Jesse McCree… and you must be the man of the hour. Everyone has been buzzin’ about ya… and for good reason.”

They’re a bright whiskey brown, McCree’s eyes are. They are soft and welcoming with the grin he held that just the sight of it just causes Shimada to roll his own in annoyance. Either the man was honestly being kind or just as bad as the touchy bastard currently being pulled away for medical attention. Alas, even with ignoring him and returning to his seat, the cowboy seemed to follow suit, hands clasped and elbows on the table as he leaned forward—still smiling. Perhaps it was a smile made of honest intentions.

“Y’ haven’t introduced y’self yet.”

“Was I supposed to? You apparently already know who I am.”

Jesse snorted, dimples deepening on sun-kissed, tan cheeks as he sat back, “Come now, darlin’.”

Though as Hanzo straightened in his seat, another voice chimed over his, one far louder than his with a wheezy rasp, “Sojiro! Proud to see you finally make your way to us.”

Hanzo frowned, maintaining his eye contact with Jesse, “— _Hanzo._ ” He clicks his tongue, “Did he not specify which of us was arriving? Sojiro-san wants things to be… analyzed first before he ever meets with anyone.”

“So he sends…?” Santiago is… a large man. Not in weight, but tall— _really_ tall. He’s a bit paler than McCree, but their complexion sits similar with a bit of a tan to color his skin and dark brown hair, streaked with grays.

“His _leader._ ” No matter what his standing was, Hanzo was the rightful heir of the Shimada throne and he refused for any to believe otherwise. When the old man wasn’t around to flaunt his stature and power, the young dragon was to do it in his stead.

“…If you want to call y'self that, sure.” Santiago sniffs, waving at Jesse as he takes a seat beside him.

“Don't do that. If you want to work with my people, you will respect me whether you like it or not. Every time you buy anything, _you go through me._  Sojiro-san is not the boss of my Clan. It is me. Period.”

The Deadlock leader bristles his moustache, smoothing down the hair of his beard with his fingers and his gritty fingers sliding against the glasgow scars at his cheeks, and his gaze focused on Hanzo’s in attempts to match the lifeless, dead stare. Though Shimada hates the man’s beady eyes, within a staring contest, he has Nico beat out. Be it the darkened bags under his eyes or the stress that shows in Hanzo’s features (or count the fact that he had just stabbed a man for touching his sword), the gang leader had to give in, hands lifted from the table in faux surrender and a wrinkled grin to follow.

Just his very aura disgusted Hanzo—this was going to be a long week.

“Fine. Fine. I understand. It is late and I do understand that you have had some… complications since you’ve arrived. I do apologize for their behavior—Micky’s especially. He likes to touch what don’t belong to him. Shit, I think it was his time. Please.” Santiago nods, and chews on his lip for a moment. If anything, he wasn’t intimidated by the kid—just annoyed that one brat could cause so much of a ruckus. Yet, if the rumors of devastation at the hands of the Shimada-Kai were true, he’d rather hold his tongue. “We can discuss work in the mornin’. As for now, since you’ve already met Jesse here—he’ll be helpin’ you around. A personal guard, if you please.”

                -- _Ask him for whatever you need._

Felt good stepping out of that bar. Too many judgmental eyes and it’s not even midnight yet. Sword strapped properly to his hip and knife cleaned and slipped back into the holster that sat at his thigh, he felt oddly accomplished. It may not be fear those people feel, but they got a glimpse of how Hanzo Shimada works personally. He couldn’t care less about most people, including anyone who stepped too close into his personal bubble.

And Jesse McCree was slowly inching his way too close into his personal bubble. He stood close, but never within an uncomfortable distance. He was still close enough for Hanzo to smell the light cologne he wore—smells of cedarwood. At least he’s easier on the eyes than the scarred, wrinkled features of the gruff and tough boss.

“Noticed Lori back there pissed you off—y’ didn’t eat. Get a burger with me? There’s a friendlier place up the street. I-I mean, y’ don’t have t’ I just… I thought you didn’t want to eat alone.” He paused for a moment and gave a vague gesture, “They also don’t mind weapons?”

Hanzo steps aside, giving Jesse a vague gesture, “Lead the way.”

There’s that smile again, lopsided and broad, a charming thing to see amongst all these big, bad bikers. Almost made Hanzo wonder why _he_ was amongst them. McCree simply doesn’t fit. As he walked alongside him, he took notice of the ugly, dingy brown cowboy hat that had its share of little chips and scars along the brim. The bandana around his neck was tattered and old, but it fit the overall cowboy look… that and the jingling spurs that kept catching his attention with every step.

Aside from the fancy revolver at his hip, it was odd to see him in a setting like this. He didn’t seem like a biker or a gang banger for that matter. The smile on his lips and the chipper sound in his southern drawl simply held no angry intimidation like everyone else did. McCree was the little bit of sunshine in a clusterfuck of older angry bikers. Comes off even stranger knowing that he’s openly attempting to befriend the Yakuza lord.

It still takes him aback with that thought— _befriending the Yakuza lord._ Why? Is it because he _has_ to get some type of trust out of the man or is it something else? To Hanzo, it doesn’t make sense of why Jesse is even interested in looking his way, even if he’s the man’s handler.

“Hanzo…?”

Silver hues sparkle once he’s yanked free of his thoughts. He had been so deep into his own mind that he hadn’t even noticed they had been within the restaurant for a while now. He almost feels bad that he’s ignored the cowboy for so long.

“You don’t mind me callin’ you Hanzo, do ya?”

“No, I do not mind.” With a little red tinge to his cheeks, Hanzo brushes black bangs free from his face and reclines in the booth seat. He honestly had not been paying any mind to what McCree had said to him since they left the bar. If any of it useful, it was long gone by now.

“Oh good. I didn’t wanna offend ya on the first day.” – _and end up with a knife in my gut,_ but those are words ignored and placed aside. McCree smiles and reaches across the table to place a hand over the screen of Hanzo’s phone as it lit up beside him. “We don’t do work here. Time to relax and… enjoy the calmness. Looks like you’d need it.”

“What do you mean by that?” He slips his phone back and waves the cowboy’s hand away, “I… can relax.”

“Can ya? You walked into the bar mean-muggin’ people.”

“I did _what?_ ”

“Y’ know… _mean-muggin’._ Uh.” Jesse leans back and crosses his arms with a ugly frown, lips curled downward and bottom lip poking out as far as he could get it with his brows lowered as far as he could get them. Shaggy brown hair waggles in front of his freckled features and brings a slow, eventual smile to Hanzo’s lips at the sight of it all. “Oh! Hey! Look at that. I’m  workin’ magic over here.”

“I do not look anything like that.”

“You’re right. You’re a shit ton prettier than I am.”

The comment just about flew past Hanzo without second thought. Compliments are… foreign. He’s used to ignoring a few kind words here and there, but nothing as blunt as that. At least, not pointed in his direction. His brother was usually the catch-all for such words. That is… unless Jesse didn’t mean it? Although, the words had caught him up with a tiny stutter and darkened the color on embarrassed cheeks.

“Sorry if that’s too forward of me. I had to point out the obvious before someone else beat me to the punch.” He was… honest, which brought even more doubt to Hanzo’s mind. Commentary like this was just… rarely pointed to him.

“You are… rather open to someone you’ve just met.”

“With lives like ours, y’ have to live life as extravagant as y’ can. Now--” Jesse gives a little gesture to someone behind Hanzo, “enough of me makin’ a fool out of m’self. I gotta learn about the man I’m supposed to spend a week with.”

“If only you are willing to trade information…?”

“Of course.”

Sheltered. Hanzo Shimada is _sheltered,_ that’s what Jesse’s learned tonight. The cowboy could read it in his features or the way he’d idly play with his ponytail when they spoke. Hanzo’s not used to everyone focused on _him._ However, being the son of a Japanese crime lord, one would think he’d be out flaunting and having the greatest time of his life. Jesse knew he would definitely take the opportunity—it’s not like Nico pays anything to flaunt. Just enough to pay bills and make it through school… or mostly for anyone older, enough to make sure your bike was up to snuff and piss poor habits were maintained.

Alas, Jesse is a bit jealous. The pretty rich boy does nothing to flaunt his stature but square his shoulders, tighten his jaw, and stare down other criminals as if _they_ work for _him._ Then again, with that thought, he’d probably pay better and treat his people with some respect… unlike _someone._

“So… y’ don’t party?” McCree questions, fork pushing around the lingering pieces of his apple pie, “How come?”

“I do not see why I should. It isn’t entertaining. My brother lives and breathes the club scene. Plus, Yakuza work differently than the Mob or general gangs. We have stricter rules that limit our behavior—so I work.”

“Constantly?” He watches Hanzo nod, “You don’t take a break? No. No. We can’t have that while you’re here, darlin’.”

A week—Jesse McCree had a week. Jesse had a week to slowly inch this man out of his comfort zone and grace others with that smile of his no matter how small. Apart of him wants to see it more after seeing it once. A glimpse almost brings that thought that it can be brought back over and over—warms the heart, really and he can’t wait to take such a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy thanking credit to tumblr user: goatnoises for their shimadad creation. i will be happy to say sojiro-san will be used a bit more far later, but i gotta thank now.


	3. Harmless Bets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever try not to burn yourself with writing and realize that the only thing that keeps you sane... is writing?
> 
> Yeah.

_Month one – week one — day five._

He hasn’t been to lower half of Route 66 since he’s arrived. Nico had reiterated something about them not having to ever set foot in their bars. “That’s why we have residential areas…” Or something like that. Wanted his business separated from their business apparently. It’s different on this side of the warehouse.

Bikes neatly lined the entrances of the first tavern he spotted—The High Side is what it’s called, a two story tavern that stood with quiet open arms to strangers and omnics wandering through. Bikers sat among their guests with little smiles and drinks in quiet conversation as if Hanzo hadn’t even been there. Far more comforting business that felt homely than the one on the opposite side of the canyon. They were nicer on this side, in his opinion.

The wooden table sat cluttered with single bills of fives and twenties among half empty to empty bottles of beer lingering off to the side of the men who sat there. With off handed comments and the occasional puddle of blood being wiped from the old wood, people swapped off with a scowl, leaving money behind to bet for the next and losing that in a cycle of rinse, wash, and repeat. Hanzo had the entire establishment’s attention.

He found their game… curious. Hands splayed out and a serrated bladed furiously jabbing at the table in little _thunks_ betwixt flesh and wood—it’d be a lie if he weren’t interested on trying it out. Now flush with green and just a small floral, pink band-aid around his pinky, the Shimada had heavily succeeded in mastering the little game of fiver finger fillet.

Crowds pooled over the table with a sense of interest and amusement. Hanzo has gone through half the room and most of them have given up ages ago. They seemed to all be on an equal sense of mind once the young boss stood from the table. No one hassled him or called him a cheat, but also no one offered a hand of good graces either. Instead, with a smile of kindness, many hunched forward with a little bow to return his or others slapped him on the back as a way to congratulate him for beating the champ and then some. The people are far better here than back in the residential corner.

“Maybe next time you should not bet against the man who walks in with a sword?” An omnic leaned forward, “Seems they’d know a bit more of how to avoid the blade.”

A few men laughed and others agreed while familiar faces graced themselves over Hanzo’s shoulder in awe. So much money and he had only disappeared for a couple of hours. However, before McCree could part his lips, his friend glances back with a hopeful glance (and a roll of green).

“Two hundred bought them all drinks and more. We have six hundred for us to share. Would you join me for lunch?”

The cowboy blinked for a moment, “I-I was plannin’ t’ ask you the same thing. Had in mind y’ hadn’t seen all of what we got here, and I know a good place to get food and hunker down.”

“Fantastic!” Hanzo’s smile widens, “Lead the way.”

* * *

 

Seeing Jesse with his hat on is becoming too normal for Hanzo, seeing him without it almost baffles the young dragon for a moment. Stepping into the small restaurant, he shakes out his shaggy brown hair and fixes his red bandana before making it to the counter with his little smile to charm the working ladies. He’s greeted with waves from across the room to a peck on the cheek from an older, salt and pepper haired woman. She’s shorter than he is, but still a bit taller than Hanzo, with fair tan skin and a beauty mark at the apple of her cheek.

The restaurant is lively this afternoon. From the counter’s bar, casually sipping at the warm vanilla chai he had been offered, Hanzo couldn’t keep his attention from jumping to each cluster of people doing all sorts. Something common, so says McCree. A group has found an empty spot on the other side of the eatery where they’ve danced for who knows how long and others watch from their booths and tables. Aside from the scent of his (now fresh) latte, the place smells of a myriad of spices and citrus that it’s soothing to the senses and not at all an overload to make a man unused to all of this uncomfortable. It’s… peaceful. Yet he strays away while his friend orders with the money they’ve collected over to a table of pictures, all of happy families and tea cup candles.

“Y’ know they don’t use real candles just to make sure that nothin’ happens to this table.”

Hanzo glances back to Jesse then back to the table, scanning over each and every face, “Why? Is this important?”

“It is, yeah. It’s a table to honor th’ dead. There’s a specific time we do it, but… why not honor them all th’ time?” McCree reaches past him to tap a picture placed in the middle of the crowd and sighed, “This one’s mine, by the way.”

Silence takes Hanzo for a moment. A part of him wants to lift the image and observe it more carefully, but—would that be rude? Instead, he takes in what he can. It’s an image of two—a man and woman in uniform. The man stood taller than her, his hand in hers with an arm wrapped carefully around her waist with a wide, toothy smile. He was white, short brown hair and a well kempt beard that kept him looking as official as she did. Though her smile wasn’t as bold and bright as his was, it was simple and just as cordial in sight. She stood a couple heads under him, with her gaze turned upward towards him as if she had seen the galaxies for the first time.  Just the look in her features was beautiful—wholesome and true. The woman was far darker than he, dark hair rolled into a tight, neat bun, and the badge at her bosom sparkling in the glint of the camera’s lights. The image looked too old to be something recent.

“Are these…?”

“Mhm. Ma was a Sheriff and the old man was military? I think? He died when I was real little.  Jus’ me an’ ma for a while until she…”

For once the shine of Jesse McCree dims greatly. As one who sparkles with exuberance, the mere mention of what he had before hollows him to a silent, tired, husk of a thug. Perhaps this is what pushed him over to Deadlock in the first place? Hanzo doesn’t want to know that answer. Everyone has their reasoning for something, don’t they? He has no place to pry. In lieu of it all, the Shimada places his hand at McCree’s bicep with a little rub. Oddly enough he understands Jesse’s plight. Though their situations are vastly different… at least the sharpshooter spent time with his mother.

“Do not continue. It is heartache one does not need. Keep your head up, it will slowly get better.” That is… if he doesn’t die in this profession… like the most of them do.

* * *

 

‘ _It’s not a date,_ ’ Jesse swears by it, but no matter how much Hanzo jests, it’s quite the beautiful day. The sun sat high within the afternoon sky and the heat had Hanzo relieved he decided against the nice button down and slacks for something more casual. It wasn’t as if any of the other guests were donning their nicest suits to slouch around the residence areas—why should he? Then again, even with the casual wear of a wide open muscle-tee and baggy sweats, he was still a touch uncomfortable with the heat bearing on exposed skin.

As much as he mentally complains (mostly of the heat)—it’s gorgeous out here. The clouds are scarce and the wind is gentle, Hanzo finds it interesting that Jesse chose a park of all places to have lunch. Then again, with his hair pulled back and free from his face, and lunch just as flavorful as it smelled when they bought it, no matter how he felt about the weather, he couldn’t deny how wonderfully peaceful it was in such a quiet park.

“Serious question this time.”

“All right. Go for it.”

“How do y’ do it? How do y’ kill a man and feel nothin’ afterwards? “

Hanzo sighed, eyes lowering to splintering wood, “You don’t regret your actions working with Deadlock, do you?“

Jesse shakes his head, “No, no. I’m just curious. Plus, I ain’t that high enough to get those hardcore hit jobs. I’ll do a pick up and maybe a drive-by. Did a heist once.”

“How did that go?”

“…I got arrested eventually.” Jesse then purses his lips and sits forward, “But, watchin’ what y’ did the other day? Could’ve killed’em, saw that _look_ in your  eyes, but y’ went and damn near chopped his fingers off. Old man can’t use a gun no more.”

“I… “ Hanzo chews at his bottom lip for a moment, “It's hard not to think about for a while, but to make it easier… I try not to think of them as people. That, in itself, is most difficult. “

The look from McCree is blank as it is subtly horrified. There is a rampant thought within his head of if Hanzo could simply turn a switch on and off in his head where seeing a man die does nothing to him? Could he kill every higher up of Deadlock and pretend it never even happened? What about him? Would Hanzo kill him and shoulder away any friendly feelings towards him? The thought of it made his stomach churn.. Gangbangers are different from natural born Gangsters… aren't they? Hanzo would slap him if he knew Jesse was _still_ calling him some form of a gangster or mobster.

 _‘That's not what we are,’_ is what he can hear the Shimada grumble, ‘ ** _Yakuza is different._** ’ Which is true. They are, but to McCree, watching his face redden in annoyance was adorable. At this point, that’s the best way to keep things positive. He had to stop thinking about what Hanzo _could_ do to him, but rather how could he attempt to avoid it ever occurring. His smile is far more alluring than his temper; McCree could say that with truth.

Not… not as if Jesse was planning on announcing that to him any time soon.

“Do not become this, McCree.” Hanzo's voice is soft when he speaks up again. He's been idly spinning one of Peacekeeper’s bullets on the picnic table they shared. At one point he was amused with the sight of them glowing; now he's focused on just one.

“I… don't follow?”

Steel on whiskey, his gaze is focused on Jesse’s, “You do not have the hands of a man made to murder.”

The gunslinger is unsure if he should be offended or commend the man for being kind, "What makes you think I ain't up for this?”

“You haven't treated me like a monster _yet._ You haven’t put a gun to my head and demanded something out of me… **_yet._** You are nothing like your peers.”

He's at a loss of words for a moment. Hanzo believed he was good because Jesse wasn't like the others? Then again, after a few years of working with Deadlock and well, after finding out about Mickey— the man deserved it, but not at the hands of a man who just looked at him, perhaps murder wasn’t something he was built for. Yet, Jesse’s done worse to many without command. Does that mean that Hanzo doesn’t respect him for not seeing what he’s capable of?

Jesse shakes his head, smoothing hair from his face before sliding his hat back on. Despite what Hanzo thinks, he’s a good—if not, _great—_ soldier. Or that’s what he’s been telling himself. Then again, it’s… different. He’s seen the evils of these Leaders and other gang lords and with truth laced in his heart, he never wants to be like them if he ever makes it that far. However, after a few days following Hanzo around and listening to him speak (that accent of his blissfully peaceful when he was at ease), he knew Hanzo wasn't an inherently evil man.  How does a man like him reach such a status? That’s a stupid question. He’s seen a brief taste of how a man like him reaches such a status.

“How did’ja make it to this? I have to agree with the others—you’re _young._ ”

“Twenty-two is young?”

“Twenty-two is _very_ young.”

Hanzo stopped spinning the bullet for a moment to lean forward onto the table, hands clasped and those stormy hues focused, “Keep this between us?” Jesse nods. “I am still learning. My father is still technically the head boss, _but_ they still call me… uh… _‘Wakai Kumichō._ ’”

“Wha’s that mean?”

“It still shows that I am still leader, I am just the back up. My father does not want to meet or go to certain places, he sends me.”

“Makes sense,” Jesse laughs into his hand. He’s turned away from Hanzo to light his cigar. Taking a long drag, he huffs out a small white stream before returning his attention, “It’s interestin’. Never thought I’d befriend someone so close to the top as you. Ain’t many around our age range here. But just watchin’ you work, y’ handle a bit better than anyone else older.”

“Befriend?”

The gunslinger stutters for a moment and takes a nervous drag to keep his mouth shut, but the look in the young leader’s eyes pull his confession, “I thought… maybe we made friendly. I—”

“You see us as… friends?” His head cocks a smidgen to the right, face innocent… as much as it could be.

“You don’t?”

“…I do. I did not think you would want me as a friend… Not many back home do.” It’s hard to admit that he’s been so… _veiled._ He’s brought it up to McCree once before, but bringing it up again seemed more difficult. He’s confessed little things, but… the loneliness? That builds over time and builds itself on a man’s shoulders in signs of aggravation and fatigue. He’s always moving. Always working. Always training. A personal life was almost non-existent for him that it basically made him—well, _perfect._ Hanzo had nothing to weigh him back and everything to boost him forward. Between he and his brother (or the countless others running for his position), he was the best and the clan losing him would destroy them from the inside out.

Hanzo didn’t think twice about ever bringing that up. Especially to some stranger. Almost a terrifying thought that even with this man being so kind to him now, he’d return home and things go silent. Another series of mornings and nights where he’d work himself sick. A typical day, really.

“So, when y’ leave from here… everythin’ goes back to normal?”

“I suppose.”

Jesse chuckles into his cigarillo, taking a long drag before allowing the smoke to expel from his nose, “Well shit. They’re missin’ out.” Hanzo’s ears perk and Jesse has turned his attention to him fully, “Now before you get weird on me, I mean it like… You’re a good person… when you’re not pissed off. An’ I can see the blood levels rising when Santiago opens his mouth, but the longer y’ stick around, the worse it’ll get. Trust me. The northern bosses are dicks an’ I honestly can’t wait to see that.” There’s a little sigh and he’s back to smiling, “Five years of me bein’ here, and it’s excitin’ now.”

It’s exciting to him _now_ and that pries a wondering question out of Hanzo. Jesse’s always been the baby of Deadlock. Joined at sixteen and staggered his way through life the best he could with them holding him by the spurs of his boots. If it wasn’t for that handy sharpshooting skill of his, McCree doubted they’d ever want to keep him around. Truthfully, he probably would have been dead before his eighteenth birthday. It’s not like Santiago actually cares about the deaths of his own men and women.

Bigger, weirder things usually happen, but a death on the first night is something chalked up as “another weird night on the border of Route 66.” Then again, things like this always make guest visits a bit more fascinating. Either the client was applauded for the action or… in Hanzo’s case, he was watched with caution. Jesse would laugh there, “He’s watchin’ like y’ gonna one up him in being Mr. Big, bad, and scary. I’m kinda hopin’ for it. He needs someone to be afraid of.”

“You think he’s afraid of me?”

There’s an immediate reach for Hanzo’s hand, calloused fingers tucking themselves under the young leader’s palm with a soft squeeze. McCree can’t help but study the light confusion that sparks across his placid features with raised brows and slightly parted lips. The man is beautiful; Jesse won’t bring himself to deny that, but… That’s too far out of his league to even attempt to go for. “If he ain’t, he oughta be. Look at’cha. Young, spry, and handsome—you can get people on y’ side with a smile, I _bet_ on that.”

“You would _bet_ on it?” Hanzo flashes a white smile, sharp canines sparkling just right in the sunlight to bring warmth— _kindness_ to his softened visage. His father had sent him there to make sure that their part of the sales were fine… as well as sit in with the meetings of other leaders as a way to _not_ be like them. That couldn’t have been more strained from his father when he briefed him on how they would act when he was around. “All right. You have yourself a bet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translation time!
> 
> Wakai Kumichō -- young leader/boss. He may not be in total control, but you bet your buns they treat him as such.


	4. Strain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where have I been? Suffering.
> 
> Also have a translation:  
> \-- Kotori-Chan: nickname for Genji.

_**Month eight – Downtime – Hanamura, Japan.** _

Social scenes make Hanzo’s skin crawl, night clubs especially. Too many people cluttered into one spot far too close to one another, seemed like the perfect place for his socialite of a little brother. However, the night came across as… different.  Back home, down at the bottom of the hill that greets Shimada castle was an isolated little place called Yakan. It was quiet and usually filled with regulars that trickle in and out on a normal nightly basis. For Hanzo, it was better than Rikkimaru—less family around him, aside from Genji, that is.

Yakan knew him and he knew the regulars. They were a wide assortment of businessmen and escorts who found comfort in a place where no judgment was held. Though small, it sat a counter of nine with high bar stools to meet the table and squared them from the cook in the back. A blissful place, in Hanzo’s opinion.

It’s… odd catching Genji so far from his own hiding spots. For him to scuttle down to the depths of some local hole in the wall rather than causing a ruckus back on the hill or in some gaudy VIP room swarmed with his posse, it felt unreal. Then again, Hanzo was far too tired to question little things. At least this was a place he was comfortable being.

A buzz—once, twice, three times rapidly sent his phone vibrating across the counter. The screen lit up with a set of messages and alerts that he had ignored hours ago in attempts that everyone would just leave him be for a little moment. However, a name had caught his attention: Jesse McCree. Truthfully he seems to be the only one Hanzo’ll find himself responding to. It’s not like he’s greeted with kind messages from anyone else…

**00:09am McCree:** ur real quiet  
**00:09am McCree:** hope u arent sleep  
**00:09am McCree:** o h damn u mite b sleep  
**00:12am Hanzo:** 私の弟と。  
**00:12am Hanzo:** sorry, forgot to switch back.  
**00:13am Hanzo:** brother wanted late night ramen.  
**00:15am McCree:** u being social? whaaaat? ;P  
**00:16am McCree:** dont lie 2 me. prove it.  
**00:16am Hanzo:** How?  
**00:17am McCree:** send a pic!

“Anija?” His grip is tight on the white device. Hanzo’s head pops up from the message, scanning the room and catching a couple new faces. For a moment he had forgotten where he was. Yet he could hear the soft clink of Genji’s chopsticks tapping against ceramic before sitting them atop his bowl, “Is this where you keep disappearing to?” There’s a soft snort into his glass, “And here I thought you had a girlfriend.”

The cook gave a noise of amusement as Hanzo rolled his eyes, “No. Just here. He’s awake and cooking when I’m still moving from jet lag or… everything else. Now what did you want? I could be asleep right now.”

“If you slept…” The cook glanced back from the kitchen then back to his stove with a chuckle.

The little comment would have granted a roll of silver hues, yet he’s… nervous. If that was enough to feel as if a Jesse had requested nudes out of him.

_Bzzz._  
       Bzzz.  
             Bzzz.

**00:21am McCree:** a selfie.*  
**00:21am McCree:** that’s what I mean.  
**00:22am McCree:** :’)

He wants a picture. That’s what Jesse wanted. _A picture._ He can do that. Nothing too hard… right? There’s a soft noise of little clicks of what could be snapping fingers, instead pallid fingers tug at his brother’s sleeve to drag him close. The screen flickers and flashes the old wooden ceiling. “ _A quick one,_ ” and  Hanzo raises his phone between them and his brother adjusts himself to raise his hand in a half-assed V-sign over his mouth (wink included) as Hanzo gives a tired smile, honest and sweet. The camera shutter clicks loudly a few times and a couple people look up, but return to their meals.  It’s a picture sent blissfully to the cowboy across the world, one of reddening cheeks and an actual smile.

Halfway across the world, McCree is left with a smile, one elusive and beautiful. He’s grown too accustomed to that of a simple scowl that sat imprinted on the young dragon’s features to push back the aggravating collection of bosses and gang leaders who suck up for alliances or money. His heart flutters at the sight of it, disregarding the other at his side. However, each photo received was instantly saved to his phone with a foreign happiness one could not explain.

**00:29am McCree:** now look at you being cute.  
**00:29am McCree:** you should smile more.  
**00:30am Hanzo:** It hurts my cheeks.  
**00:31am McCree:** worth it. ;’)

“Not a secret lover is it?” Such a nosy gaze and the sparrow as found himself eying the lasting bits of a silent conversation beneath the sent photos.

The screen goes black, “Not one you’d ever find out about, Kotori-chan…”

Genji smiles, broad and proud, as mechanical fingers clicked against the can of Sapporo as he refreshes Hanzo’s empty glass, shoulder pressing against his brothers, “Thank you for joining me, but you’re going to need a stronger drink after this.”

In Tokyo one morning, then somewhere on the ass end of America the next night, and back again to Hanamura for the rest of the week and out again. _A_ drink was an understatement. He’d be fine with a tranquilizer and some earplugs to grant him the sleep he’s ignored for almost a month, thought it feels like longer. He’s officially lost track of time with all the work that had drug him back into the cloistered life he thought he had long escaped.

For once, he’s worn out, overtaxed, and it aches in his bones, showing heavily in the bags under his eyes. _A drink is the last thing he wants._ Alas, he accepts the refilled glass with a long sip of brisk sweet, “Fine. Hit me.”

Genji glances up with a wary glance to the people around them, all of them locked in their own little conversations and no one ever glancing their way. His throat almost feels dry and he can feel his heart racing, but… “I want to join Overwatch.”

There’s a terrible feeling of a stinging burn at the back of Hanzo’s throat that tingles his nose and brings tears to his eyes. It’s hard to breathe through the harsh coughs that leave him wheezing. He shouldn’t have been drinking… He’s standing now—well, _hunched over,_ hand gripping the back of his chair as he struggles to cough into the crook of his arm. “I-I’m sorry? I’m sorry? _What?_ ”

“You okay over there, Shimada-sama? I can’t have you dying on my floor…” Eyes are settled on them now; the chef has peeked from the back with a few bottles of sake.

“Fine! I’m fine!”

A little bow from the other Shimada as he shuffles for his wallet, “My apologies. I shouldn’t have dropped such a shock on him. Thank you!” Cybernetic digits flex a few times as the coins of his change clink in his palm and he gives another bow—and another—and another that comes with a bump to his brother.

* * *

 

It takes a while for Hanzo to gather himself. At the bottom of the hill, he takes a long stare at the snow covered sakura, hands deep within his pockets and cheeks red from the cold. The lanterns beneath the trees left a comforting gradient of white to purple that washed against the blue sky. Turning away from it, he could see the skyline of the city— _his_ kingdom—all lit up in bright colors and soft noises of the sky-tram passing through.

Genji is not going to ruin this.

“Overwatch, Kotori-chan? _Overwatch?_ ” Hanzo repeats it a few times. It feels like a dream—like disbelief—and no matter how many times his voice utters it over and over, a part of him can feel the empire he’s yet to gain crumbling between his fingers. “Why Overwatch? Why ruin your life?”

“This isn’t ruining my life--”

“—Then why are you doing this? Why choose something that’s going to **_destroy_** you? We are not in a position to side with them.”

Genji is far more than just a brother to Hanzo. To him, his little brother has always been his best friend and his stability. Though things between them have drifted as they had grown older, he’s left trust on the shoulders of his brother. To hear this… to hear such a sound stance from the young sparrow felt like betrayal. Overwatch is not the allies needed nor do they want anything to do with any of their business… knowing what Blackwatch does (and that’s no secret).

So why? Why leave the security of what he has to embrace someone who’s been leading in their downfall since their beginning. Genji would not be safe there. They’d use him until everything the clan had built fallen and he was no longer needed. Truthfully, he wouldn’t be safe within their home if any other found out.

“What makes you think I want to keep doing _this?_ I’m not fit for this—not like you are.” With arms crossing over his chest, there’s a stream of white that floats into the air from his huff, “They offered sanctuary. Said I could do better— _be_ better. They asked me to join them… I’d be helping people.”

“And they are liars!” Could he have gotten any louder with his interruption? Hanzo’s voice rose and cracked as if those from the castle walls could hear his frustration. In his heart, he wanted Genji’s words to be false—a joke. That’s what he was known for… right? “They suck you in and steal you away so you can do what? Hunt down your own flesh and blood?”

“They wouldn’t do that…”

_“What the fuck do you expect them to do to us?”_ He grits his teeth and hisses a cloud steam that laces each word with poison. With a gaze like that he ought have placed a curse on his brother. Steel hues hardened with focus on his little one with sadness more than anger. Had he just claimed to have stepped from the family and accept losing _another_ finger, Hanzo would have been able to look the other way. “You are **_nothing_** to them but a means to get information… that’s it.”

“You’re paranoid!”

“I’m cautious.”

“Call it what it is, Hanzo. You’re paranoid. You’re out of your fucking mind if you think they’ll just use me to get to _you._ ” The end was pointed with a few jabs to his older brother’s chest, that skinny finger made of machine and wire prodding fabric roughly as he held firm in his words. “What do they care of what we do here? We are not terrorists. We haven’t murdered innocents to prove a damn point—Overwatch doesn’t give a damn about us--!”

Footsteps shuffle on old cobblestone and Genji jerks forward. Veins raise in Hanzo’s fists as he white-knuckles the now-wrinkling collar of his brother’s coat. He’s not exactly speechless as he is swimming in questions that he can’t seem to muster out of his mind. Why did Overwatch offer Genji anything when they know who he is? Why do they care of what happens to the son of a criminal? Yet… Genji was right—they aren’t terrorists. In fact, they are simply “aggressive businessmen,” as their father would put it.

He can’t strike Genji, no matter how much his hands shake and the silence sits tense between the two of them. Instead, he shoves the younger Shimada with a scowl, “Overwatch is nothing but pin prick in our side. You join them and you’re nothing but a traitor.” Hanzo drags a hand down his face with a sigh, “Keep your mouth shut. Don’t **_ever_** bring this up again.”

There’s that crunch of snow of footsteps departing into the night and Hanzo is back to feeling his heart throb and catch in his throat. Is this what he’s to expect once he steps up? Perhaps Genji is right… maybe it is paranoia. He wouldn’t be surprised if it weren’t. It’s not like the feeling has never lingered on his senses before.

Another sigh.

**01:45am Hanzo:** Are you busy?  
**01:47am McCree:** nope  
**01:47am McCree:** something wrong?  
**01:48am Hanzo:** I need someone to talk to. Can I call?  
**01:51am McCree:** yeah yeah i’m here

The pauses between rings felt long in the night’s cold; however Jesse spent no time answering with the tight sound of worry in his voice. He sounds tired… it is still early for him.

“What’s botherin’ ya, sugar?”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“How do y’ feel? Has it been a long night?”

Hanzo gave an invisible nod, “Long _month._ I’m just… tired.”

“I’m here all day. Unload a little an’ I’ll listen. Y’ don’t need all that stress on y’ shoulders.”

_Talk to me… I’m here. **Always.**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: this fic wasn't supposed to derail this far... lmao it was literally supposed to be them over the course of a week (or so that was the prompt) and yet, here we are. not doing that shit. LOL


	5. An offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever just need filler because you feel like things are happening really fast?  
> Yeah, me too. omg
> 
> Hope you guys are having a nice day. :) <3

**Four years earlier – Santa Fe, New Mexico.**

_“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”_

The whole plan had gone tits up. Dealers ran left and right, scampering across the warehouse like horrified rats when Blackwatch came descending from the starlit heavens, guns out and sparking with each shot. Horror sat taut in the many whom were snatched up by the darkness of the warehouse or those who found themselves divided and hidden in spots too small to conceal even the biggest biker. The sight of gangsters scurrying for weapons felt as if a movie had been played on the big screen.

McCree could feel his lungs tightening as he ran alongside groups, shoving them into agents once he ducked and weaved through crowds of gunfire and loud commands. It was chaos that seemed to come through in a storm of blood splatter and hail of fleshy chunks from those more unfortunate than he.

 _Everything_ had fucked up, and _he_ was to blame. Condemn the henchman who had no idea what he was transporting nor what he was putting himself into. Why not throw the brat under the bus? And yet, here the cowboy sat, aggravated in a silent, cold corner with his hands uncomfortably tucked behind his back and exhaustion wracking on his shoulders.

Though fatigue pulled at his eyes, it didn’t stop the pull of his gaze to meet the rather _young_ features of the incoming blond. He was the one who had yanked Jesse through mud and gravel before promptly throwing the handcuffed cowboy in the backseat of an unmarked van. The blond across from him almost pops with color with how brightly his jacket was is on white walls. Electric blue with little sparkles of older metal bits that sat at his shoulders and across his chest. But there’s something that just stands out that no other officer or sheriff holds—an Overwatch crest. Some wore their old badges and medals from when they were military, but that crest?

Jesse can’t help but allow his hat to slide forward as he thumps his head against the wall a couple times. He’s fucked up—no, _Santiago_ has fucked up. The old bastard has really dug himself deep into not catching the attention of the FBI or the CIA… no. _No._ He’s got the pros coming after him now. And what does that mean for Jesse? Not counting the fact that he’s been stared down by a blond hawk, he’s been arrested and probably left for dead without bail from anyone.

Probably what Santiago wanted in order to go back into hiding within the depths of Route 66.

 “Jeez… You can’t be more than what? Eighteen? Nineteen—?”

“— _Seventeen._ ”

“Oh yeah, ‘cause that helps your case. Seventeen year old wannabe gangster arrested pretending to be Deadlock Bomber. The headlines are going to eat you, kid.”

Brows furrow, “Who are y’ callin’ a wannabe?”

“You, smartass…”

There’s a little scoff as the cowboy shifts on the floor. This guy is kidding right? McCree could almost feel insulted if he cared enough. Yet the grin on his face flashed a bit of teeth as he leans forward with a sneer, “Well shit, cabrón, I got some news for ya.”

“Oh. My. God. We’re pulling _children_ out of gangs now?”

“Who the fuck are y’ callin’ a **_child_**?”

He huffs, blowing a few brown strands of hair free from his face as he eases himself up from the floor with weary legs and aid from the wall. At least he was out of those handcuffs, though that alone wasn’t the hard escape. He’s shimmied his way out of all sorts of shackles hundreds of times, but it was getting out of the room with his life that lingered on his mind. Either he makes a run and takes a risk with either a successful escape or being shot in the back or he’s sent to trial… which would kill him. If he knew the police department as well as he thought he did, Jesse could take the easy way out and risk being shot.

Yet McCree frowns and watches the blond pace the small room. Though the soldier grumbled to himself, brows pushed in as close as they could be, he kept moving closer to the boy… as if the room wasn’t uncomfortably small enough to be deemed a closet already. “You don’t really have an option here. Tell me everything of where I can find Nico Santiago and take fifteen years or be tried as a terrorist. You won’t get out, kid.”

“Either way, you’re sendin’ me to my death, so y’ ain’t getting’ shit out of me.”

“So you want to be listed as a terrorist? Don’t be an idiot, kid.”

“ _Pardon?_ ”

“Well, at least stupidity comes with manners—” It’s a sentence cut short as knuckles greet a strong jaw. It’s a telling blow for the man in blue. It felt as if his body surged sideways, shoving him face first into the wall beside him. He’s dizzy, lost within a cloud scattered thoughts stinging pain— _oh!_ That throb pierced through his lower jaw as if the boy had cracked it with one hit.

Stumbling back, the soldier reached out for the door, his opposite hand still clutching at his jaw while Jesse could feel his heart pounding away in his ears. Does he stay or does he take the opportunity given? Well, the latter of the two would have definitely got him killed once the blond stood tall… but what if he couldn’t catch him? A stagger and Jesse snatches the handcuffs from the floor and spins on his heels to catch the free arm and slap the bracelet quickly around the man’s wrist and the other side quickly around the handle of the door. He may not make it out if Overwatch is crawling around the facility, but it gave him one hell of a head start.

Though the halls seemed a bit more cramped than the room they left him in, it held no feeling of the police headquarters he had memorized. Each grey corridor felt like a maze. No matter where he ran, it felt as if he had seen that hallway once before with no exit in sight. And yet, even with as far as he was from that empty interrogation room he could hear orders barked throughout the facility in loud attempts to find him.

For once, the cowboy couldn’t hear the jingle of his spurs over the thumping of his heart, unbeknownst that just the sound, so simple and small, had given him away multiple times and bounding ‘round one corner, eyes caught over his shoulder, there’s a harsh stop that takes his breath away. He‘s halted rather than stumbling about, catching his thoughts before turning his attention to a new man, one a bit taller than he, dark skinned and even darker scars coloring his features.

Fingers to his ear, he sniffs, “Call off your search, I got him.”

Jesse’s shoulders slumped. It was an attempt worth trying, he’s not going to get another chance and if he does the security would definitely be beefed up. Yet the man before him didn’t make an attempt to arrest him, instead, he stood with his arms across his chest and his gaze focused on the freckled-faced child who slowly rose his fists in preparation to take whatever was given.

“Relax, kid, relax.” His defense is nonexistent, but he keeps his composure, eyeing the boy with curiosity. “You, uh…” A _short_ noise of amusement, “You dislocated my partner’s jaw. That’s one hell of a punch y’ got.” Jesse kept quiet and the soldier rolled his eyes. “He probably deserved it, didn’t he? What did he offer you? Go on, speak up! Either that or I turn you back over to him.”

“A death sentence--”

“ _Death sentence?_ That doesn’t sound right; he’s usually a bit more tame than that.”

Jesse grit his teeth for a moment, “Fifteen years in a super max or m’ life in prison labeled as a terrorist. So yes, a fuckin’ death sentence.”

“You did have a bunch of bombs on you…”

“Not like I had any idea what was in m' damn car! This ain’t the first time Santiago has fucked over his people.”

The man tilted his head, brows knitting together for a moment, “That doesn’t make sense. Why? Is he going into hiding?”

McCree shrugs, “Probably. I don’t know.”

“Huh. Listen here. Work with us, take Santiago down, and you’re out scot free. No questions asked.”

“Don’t play me for some dipshit.”

“Look, we’ve been trying to infiltrate his crew for such a long time. As long as you keep your mouth shut, he’ll never suspect a thing. Won’t be easy, but _that’s what trainin’ is for._ ”

The boy crosses his arms, skeptical over everything, “…Or?”

“Or what…?”

Jesse shrugs, the frown on his face pseudo-permanent now, “What other bullshit option are y’ going to throw at me that just forces me to y’ side?”

A snort is given in response from the soldier, “You apparently got those choices already. I’m just here to be the good cop and help you out. Plus, on the good side, you’d be working for me—not him… but havin’ you around ougha really piss him off. Especially once that bruise starts darkening.”

“There’s gotta be some type of hook here.”

The older man shakes his head, “When it’s all over and you haven’t fucked yourself or us, why arrest a kid who hasn’t done anything—I mean, unless you’ve killed a man or two before all of this, then you're gonna have to serve for that.” Jesse shakes his head, “Good. So what’s your choice? Us or them?”

Prison or Blackwatch? He could have slapped himself for ever deciding it’d be a good idea to join a gang wanted by every last military in the country. His mother would be spinning in her grave if she had known. Yet then, he had no choice. When she passed, he had nowhere to go. Other cops and military offered to take him in, but Jesse would turn down their “pity” in hopes to follow life on his own. He was on that borderline of aging out of foster care and still too young to work and sustain on his own.

Santiago was willing to let the young work for him. They were easily ignored within a gang of older bikers and skilled hands, but they were also often reckless and often caught well before any of the others were. They were excellent scapegoats, especially when left to die in the heat of battle. If they didn’t last the year, they weren’t branded with Deadlock ink and that kept Deadlock out of public eye while the news went buzzing around smaller gangs and thugs. Though to some, it felt almost like a waste when most of them don’t make it far enough to even see the final touches of their tattoos.

But that was four years ago and Jesse is still stuck under Santiago’s thumb with no chance of escape any time soon.

There’s a rough tap at his leg that sends a jolt shooting through his body, yanking him free from his thoughts, heart pumping and eyes wide. His breath hitches and eyes scan the room for a moment to remember where he is. Jesse’s with them— _Overwatch—_ or well, an alternate headquarters in some high-rise, fancy apartment to give sight to a normal family rather than some undercover makeshift, hacker hovel called home.

“You okay? Sick or just tired?”

“Distracted.”

Reyes tilted his head, brown eyes focused on the cowboy, “Girlfriend problems?”

“No…?”

“Boyfriend problems?”

“ _No._ ”

“I mean, at your age, that was the high point of my distractions. Has to be someone you like… right?”

“Not really. Ain’t datin’ an’ ain’t lookin’ either.”

He smiles, crow’s feet wrinkling on brown skin. Despite what happened years back with his failed grand escape, the soldier who saved him has always been kind to him. Reyes presented himself as a friend rather than an enemy. Morrison, on the other hand, seems to still have that burning touch of aggravation every time Jesse seems to breathe. “We’re not really planning a brief so early. Torb is giving a quick run-down of everything, so you get some sleep.”

McCree reclines with a little noise, “If I can. Y’all already woke me up. Might as well sit here and mope.”

“Whatever makes you happy.” Reyes gives a little chuckle before he turns his back to the cowboy. He saunters away to make short lived eye contact with Morrison which is answered with a short, half-assed (and prostrated) smile. And apart of Jesse wants to frown at such a sight. Not one day has he (or will he) ever smile in Jesse’s direction. It’d be nice to see if that grimace wasn’t permanently stained on his face. Nonetheless, that was a hopeful thought.

It’s the kindness that he wants, might work as some type of motivation somehow… somewhere.

The team of three seemed to have disappeared into the room decorated with coffee cups and assorted guns across the furthest desk and a cluttered pin-board of red string and slightly blurry pictures of high ranking members of Deadlock. As Jesse slips from the couch he can hear Morrison huff and puff about putting ‘ _the boy_ ’ back on a dying mission, which, at this point, became a usual argument between the group.

On the couch beside him, his phone vibrates across the cushions, flashing Hanzo’s name across the desert plain of his lock screen. He waits no time to answer, questioning little things to prod the Shimada into light conversation and unload his woes. The best he could. Once the group settled without him, McCree leaned onto his legs for a moment, listening to the gentle whine from his phone. Hanzo’s voice sounded rough and laced with exhaustion.

“I’m here now. You have my full attention.” The agent keeps his voice low and his head turned away from the messy makeshift office before him. Still, the conversation from the office is louder than one could expect. He needs quiet, somewhere to chat with a stressed friend rather than drifting back and forth to listen to them and Hanzo. He huffs, tuning them out and slowly making his way to the balcony, “What’s been eatin’ ya, pumpkin?”

There’s silence on the other end then a sigh comes, “I don’t know where to start. Things have been… all over, but…” The silence returns and he can hear Hanzo begin to grumble to himself, “I… trust you.”

“As y’ should. We’re friends ain’t we? Nothin’ y’ say will leave this call. I promise.”

“I need a vacation. Just a little time away from everyone or at least work.” Hanzo chuckles, it’s weak—tired, but it’s there, “I guess you spoiled me with that idea.”

“Wouldn’t mind goin’ with ya. A nice vacation far from Santa Fe would be damn nice.”

“You wouldn’t want to go with me. I’d probably be asleep the entire time.”

For the two of them, it’s been a tedious month. Deadlock had their ongoing territory grief with another local gang and here he was, gathering small amounts of intel for Blackwatch with hopes that work doesn’t collide with one another.  A vacation further away from home would be nice by now. One where worrying about work just becomes a memory for just a short time.

That’d be the dream…

“Y’ need someone t’ keep y’ company, don’t’cha? ‘Sides, they’d probably stick a bunch of guards around ya to make sure y’ have a safe vacation.”

He groans, “Don’t say that.”

“I ain’t wrong.”

“Jesse.”

McCree gives the clouds his freckled smile, “I’d send y’ old man my word that I’d protect ya. If protectin’ meant making sure y’ had fun and got a good night’s rest… but I doubt that this is all that’s plaguin’ ya.”

Hanzo is quiet again. On the other end, he shifts in his weight and glances out over the skyline. Always a beautiful horizon… “Do you hate what you do?”

“What do y’ mean? I can’t hate it too much—it puts food on the table. It helped me meet you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He pauses, “I meant, do you ever want to leave? Quit this life and start anew? I know Santiago isn’t the best boss…”

Jesse gives an invisible shake of his head, “No. I don’t hate it. I mean, there are moments. I have m’ regrets, but like I said… I got lucky. Why do y’ ask?”

“I can't keep pretending everything is okay. _It's not._  I-" There’s a small noise of aggravation, “My… my brother wants to abandon us for Overwatch. This… _this_ could destroy everything and he sees it as a joke. Traitors are not treated kindly amongst us—no matter what, my brother will die.”

McCree’s mouth dries for a moment. Hands clammy against his phone, he tried to mentally steel himself. That one comment could send everything tits up without anyone being at fault. The cowboy rocked on his heels for a moment, unsure of what to say after such a thing. His hands quake as he pulls away from the phone for a shuddered breath. What does he say that won’t incriminate him?

“What are y' going to do about it?” McCree pauses, “I mean about your brother?”

“Dissuade, hopefully. If he wants to lead another life outside of what we have, I would happily push him to it.” Jesse can hear a little shuffle on Hanzo’s end, “I want him to lead a life he’s proud of, but this would just bring unneeded pain and grief we don’t need. We are supposed to protect one another and I can’t help him here.”

“I thought y’ take their finger before y’ banish them? Or is that just action movies gettin’ to me?” He’s attempting to pull a chuckle out of the man, but there’s still an unease silence, “Is there no way to get him out safely?”

“Other than persuading him, faking his death is an extreme, but I don’t blame him for what he chooses after dropping this thought of joining them. He has a good heart, but falling into Overwatch is... He doesn’t deserve to live a life like this where everyone is his enemy.”

A few months back, Hanzo had said something similar about Jesse. Apparently the young boss had a heart for those who saw the opposite of him, yet it did bring that same confusion back with full force. If he’s conflicted of another’s placement within what they do, why do it himself? One could save himself and his sibling with a heart as sensitive, right? Shouldn’t be that horrible… Right? Perhaps he’s being overdramatic. Then again, this was from a westerner’s point of view. With how Hanzo consistently corrected him with the notion that Yakuza weren’t “bad people,” maybe there was more to it once you were too far in?

Oh, there are far too many questions to be answered.

“Jesse…?”

“Yeah? Yeah, I’m here.”

“Before you say no, hear me out. I have a rather idiotic idea—one not pertaining to my current problem.”

“Y’ don’t want to think about it anymore?”

“Yes and… with Santiago continuously calling me, it reminded me of something… stupid.”

Jesse chuckles, “Don’t keep me hangin’ in suspense, sweetheart!”

“I need you--” There’s a silence after that, then a little blip that brings in the rest of the sentence with a soft, “ _Fuck._ ”

“T-to do what? I didn’t catch that.” It’s always unexpected to hear such harsh vulgarity come from Hanzo. Yet, McCree has learned that a sweet, innocent face usually always holds a mouth great enough to shock sailors. However, his mind was repeating the first bit of the sentence—“ _I need you._ ” He could ask for what, but it wasn’t stated as if there was anything intended to follow… but he’s allowing his mind to question much too far into things. How worrisome, really.

“What? Sorry. I need you to side with me on taking Deadlock down, piece by piece.”

That calmed down the rampant thoughts, “Take them down?”

“Yes. A lot of my allies are alerting me of internal sabotage sent in by Santiago’s men, something I don’t think you know anything on with your rank, at least.”

“No, not at all. He’s ruining y’ connection with’em?”

Hanzo scoffs, “Sort of. He’s getting in the way of things by ruining the flow of money between my allies and me, as if he wants us to give him our full attention. It’s an irritating situation, but it gives me a reason to play with his childish attacks in a similar manner.”

Jesse can’t help but chuckle, yet the thought of being a mole to one group and an agent to another seemed like too much. “As much as I’d love to help ya, I… I can’t do it. Don’t think I’m one for bein’ a double agent.”

“I’ll train you.”

“Don’t think that’s so simple.”

“You would be surprised. We just need a little bit of time.”

“Han… darlin’—”

“I need someone I can trust. Keep it in mind; I can wait for an answer that isn’t spontaneous.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Stepping back into the apartment, McCree’s mind is abuzz over the thought of all that information. On one hand, he’d gain rightful respect he’s pushed for within the ranks of Deadlock. He’s done so much over the years that being a simple henchman was almost an insult. He’s still being left in the dark to die when shit hits the fan when at least commanding a group would give him a higher chance of getting away from that. Then again, there was the thought of being pushed up the ranks by someone outside of the gang. How would that have been perceived by Overwatch? Would those among the outside see him as a traitor, abusing resources to push himself further as if he were going to jump ship once they done to go back into a life of crime?

No. He won’t go back to this. Once he’s done, it’s over. The safer thing would be to bring it up—no one to claim he’s been going behind their backs.

* * *

“He wants you to do what?”

Gabriel’s brows knitted downward. The dwarf had brought up the young Shimada, but had not mentioned once his relationship with McCree. Hearing it from his side, though spoken in a positive light, almost seemed like a veiled threat— _do not apprehend the Shimada’s._

Jesse swallows, “He wants me to help him take down Deadlock by putting me up at the top and taking everything Santiago has.”

A passing glance turns down to the blond dwarf then over to the Strike Commander across the room who simply shakes his head. Despite the idea, all of them are at a standstill wondering why him? _Why_ _Jesse McCree?_ “What does he have with Santiago? Ain’t he workin’ with him?”

The cowboy shakes his head hesitantly, “Hanzo doesn’t care about working with him; he jus’ wants to watch his world burn. Santiago has infiltrated other gangs to sabotage the Shimada connections so he can keep them as his personal arms dealer. So he wants to fight fire with fire… but I told him no.”

“You told him **_no_**!?” Shocked, he sounded _shocked._ The Strike-Commander usually  was never one to simply side with McCree. They’d stand and bicker for hours on one idea then have it thrown away. Morrison was never okay with the kid placed back into Deadlock rather than arrested like the rest of his partners. The two of them never saw eye to eye, yet here he stood, brows pushed down and eyes squinting at the cowboy. “Why?”

“I don’t want to be up that high—”

“—that isn’t a good excuse. Try again.”

“I’ve always been the gunner and the driver. It ain’t a position for me to be up that high. If he wanted to make me a top tier assassin for Deadlock, I would've taken it, but… Business ain’t m’ thing!” With the sight of the Strike-Commander’s appearance falling from annoyance to an outright scowl, McCree simply clears his throat, “ _Commander._ ”

“Still isn’t a good excuse, kid.”

The dwarf snorts, a wry smile creeping into existence, “Then what is a good excuse?”

“ ‘s good question, Jack…” Reyes crossed his arms.

How new for Jack Morrision, though the thought of it made him curious of how this was going to work himself. Either the brat dies and everything is scrapped or the intelligence hauled in brings them closer to the end of this god-forsaken mission, “Your excuse should be ‘I don’t think I’m ready so soon.’ Yet, if this is something you see yourself doing in the near future, working with us, you need to take the risk. **_Call him._** Take the offer. We need that top tier information. We can pull Torb out so he can get some time and work away from all of this, but _you_ are a great asset to this. _Take. The. Offer._ ”

A quick glance around the room had all eyes on him. Jesse McCree was an asset to this mission. At a loss of words, he stood there for a moment staring down at his phone, mouth dry and mind hesitant. This is what it’s like to be a real Blackwatch agent, isn’t it? As he lifts his phone up to his ear, he can hear the thudding in his chest with every pause betwixt each ring. He’s not ready, but anything to prove he’s a good damn soldier.


	6. Light focus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta'ing, we die like men.

_Month Nine – Santa Fe, New Mexico._

Not once in his life had Jesse ever seen an omnic with such a decorated faceplate. It almost reminded him of those old school cartoons he’d watch as a kid where the Japanese monsters had overdramatic expressions where their mouths were stuck in a perpetual frown of disgust and it always felt as if everything else around that one little thing just kept the monster in a frequent state of anger. Despite that, the sight of the omnic was just—well, _beautiful…_ In a creative standpoint, that is. It was taller than the other man who rolled his eyes at a reddening Santiago. It stood with its arms behind its back and its chest puffed out as if it were trying to intimidate the gang leader with just its presence (and truthfully, it seemed to be working on McCree).

Intrigue found itself becoming amazement instantly once he inched a bit closer. Not once had either the other guard or Nico noticed the cowboy, but the omnic focused dead on him. Jesse found himself ogling again. Its optics were a soft blue-white with a dim glow that’d flash every so often as if it were scanning him over and over again. Its mouth was black with a mesh that covered a set of lips that he knew wasn’t there. Then there were the pearlescent white horns on an equally pearlescent blue mask, just as scratched and lightly dented as the rest of his face like scars on an old warrior. The omnic tilted its head before turning to face him completely with a little bow.

The Shimada’s praise themselves on little intricate details, don’t they?

“Many apologies. We were told to turn away any seeking Hanzo-san.” Even the mouth had a little shine to it, lighting up with every word.

“Nah. That’s… that’s fine. I can come back later when he ain’t  attemptin’ t’ sleep.”

It stands straight again, looking Jesse dead in the face, optics brightening as if it were curious— _studying._ “Name?”

“McCree.”

The man behind it leans over to mutter something simple, pulling down what looked like a medical mask from his face. In silence, a series of little lights lit up across the bot’s face, its eyes flashing brighter and mouth fading in and out before nodding to whatever was said between them. The two of them nodded, the other guard turning his attention back to Santiago and the omnic back to Jesse.

“We were to send for you when he was done. He requested you by name. You are able to speak to him whenever—”

“—An’ why him?” There’s a gritting noise coming from the Deadlock boss. With his hands on his hips and face bright red, he can’t help but butt into the conversation gritting his teeth as he does so.

“That isn’t our place to question--”

He cuts the omnic short, turning his attention to McCree as well, “Need ya to call y’ friend up. He and I got shit to do and no time to do it in.”

Jesse frowns, scrunching his lips to one side and taking a step back, “You don’t pay me enough t’ get cursed out because y’ wanna wake him up.”

“This is a direct order, McCree.”

It’s discomforting, the silence that rolls betwixt them as the door creeks open between the guards. The two jerk to attention, back to that stoic stance Jesse spotted the omnic in when he arrived—broad shoulders, heads up, but now their hands sat firmly on the hilts of their swords. A little cough and the man is tugging his mask down once again with a curt bow of his head and hushed murmurs of what sounded like apologies. Hanzo didn’t seem to care much of it. Instead he pokes out of the door a bit, hair matted to his face and dripping.  There are a few head nods and couple grunts in response, but the rest is not understood. Yet the young boss disappears for a moment and the guards return to their normal relaxed stance before he peeks out once more.

…and hands out a simple cloth bag.

“Go. I’ll handle them. Just… get that cleaned and don’t worry about me.”

Santiago huffs, the sound of this leather scrunching up as he crosses his arms and his spurs jingling as he shifts in his weight, “Y’ got time for me or do you wanna chat with y’ best friend first?”

“You’re here now aren’t you…? I shouldn’t even give you my time after that flight you put me on.”

“Nothing’s wrong with first class. Leg room. Air conditioning—”

“—And a child directing its ‘airsickness’ toward me is really the golden factor.”

There’s a snort from the gang-lord, “My deepest apologies.”

“I don’t accept half-assed apologies. I do accept payments on my dry cleaning; however, my haori is not cheap.” Hanzo gives a little wave of his hand, gesturing to the men to follow after, but instantly pushed Santiago back with a deadpan glower, “Don’t ever pay for another one of my flights.”

Every room sits as a cardboard cutout of the other. It was an old motel turned into something for bikers and guests to have a cheap (often _free_ ) place to stay as long as they put effort into what they did. Guest rooms were always the better of the rest. Clean. Organized. _Spacey._ Made Jesse a touch jealous, granted he made his hovel a home, but Hanzo’s almost felt a bit more comforting, even with being much more bare than his corner was. Maybe it’s the coffee cups scattered across the room, towels draped over a chair in a far corner, clothing in clumps on the bed and his suitcase nowhere in sight.

Taking a corner of Hanzo’s bed, Jesse sits quietly with his hands tucked in his lap as Santiago clambered his way into one of the wooden chairs by the door, jingling as he did so. He sighs, making himself comfortable with an arm slung over the back and legs spread.

“Came with a proposition that I can’t jus’ drop on Jesse, here,” Santiago rustles at his pockets, running his hands down old faded jeans before producing an almost empty lighter and short cigarette, “I’m jus’ hopin’ you can help me with my problem.”

The cigarette is lifted to splitting lips and snatched away before it’s lit, “You hounded me for weeks to settle one of your problems? You don’t have people to do that for you?”

“Not any as good as you or anything you can produce. So two things.”

Hanzo kept quiet, flicking the short cigarette out the door and closing it, “Go on.”

Santiago grinned, the gnarled scar at his cheek dimpling, “Like I said, Shimada’s are excellent at what they do and I need ya t’ help me, well, _eradicate_ one of’em.”

It wasn’t even a scoff that was given; either that or he was doing his best not to laugh. Hanzo covered his mouth for a moment with the sleeve of his robe and cleared his throat, “You can’t afford me to carry out a hit.” Jesse snorts and the gang leader frowns. “I am only here to make sure that trades are successful and that _you_ don’t swindle me out of my money.”

There’s that gritting noise again, “ _I_ can’t afford ya, Shimada?”

“Me? Personally? No.”

“How much do y’ think y’ services cost?”

“It’s not how much I _think_ they cost, it’s how much my general rate is.”

“How much?”

“A million—American—is my lowest for people I like. But you’re asking me to probably take out your competition? Two billion. Half in jewels. The rarer, the better.”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked. My rates are not going to change for you.” He gives a little shrug, pulling his robe further up his shoulders, “You said it yourself: Shimada’s are _excellent_ assassins. You only want me to do it because we’re working partners and I’m clean.” It sounds as if Hanzo’s mocking him, “It is my job to make sure everything goes smoothly. I must make sure you are satisfied with the results and I even send you confirmation. You want someone good; you have to be ready for their prices.” He pauses, “Second request?”

“Well shit, don’t think I’d make it any farther with askin’ anything else if all you want is money.”

“You know must have forgotten who you were talking to…” Another shrug, “You are asking for my services not a favor… I don’t like you **_that_** much. So keep talking while you have the chance.”

He’s now upright, hands clasped tightly between his legs and attention focused on the younger man standing before him. He’s angry. Santiago is burning several shades of red and Hanzo is still as deadpan as he was when he walked in. Nevertheless, he scoffs to himself. He’s letting a ‘child’ get the best of him. “Got a newbie wantin’ to meet someone fresh faces and learn a thing’er two, which led me to another idea. Thought McCree here would very much enjoy having a partner on a pick-up--”

“—Fuck no!”

Hanzo’s head snapped to greet darkening glower that grew in Jesse’s features. All these months and short lived moments at his side never had he once seen such a look of hatred and disdain. _How interesting._ Here, he’s learning something new of his friend that brought him to want to question it and inquire why his friend had such a frigid response to a question only the sharpshooter and his boss knew the answer to. Unfortunately, Hanzo felt that was not his place to wonder of such little things.

“Wasn’t askin’ you, sunshine. You just need to be monitored—don’t want another screw up.”

“Monitored?” Hanzo’s head tilted, “Why is that? Do you think he’s not good enough to do the job on his own?”

“He needs—”

“ _Ah-ah!_ ” A pale hand is raised to hush the Deadlock leader, “I wasn’t finished. If you think he needs to be monitored, what made you think he was capable enough to be **_my_** guide?”

“Different circumstances.”

“And you can’t find someone else to do it if apparently he isn’t good enough? Then you’ve gotten your answer. He said ‘ ** _no._** ’ Period.”

Or **_at all,_** but who’s adding on that last tidbit to get added to Deadlock’s growing hit list. Not Hanzo Shimada, that’s for sure… or at least not today, that is. Nevertheless, Santiago is back up to his feet with his lips turned down and teeth still grinding away. Nothing seemed to be going his way and Hanzo was being openly smug about it.

“10AM, Shimada. Give my offer a think over.”

Like that, the door was closed with a force that rattled the windows and lifted the curtains in a flurry of waves. Alas, Jesse’s attention had fallen from his boss and over to his friend. He could care less of the lashing he was probably close to receiving for openly denouncing Nico rather than begrudgingly following suit as he was supposed to.

But there was also Hanzo still standing there… in all his messy regality.

_Focus, Jesse McCree. **Focus.**_

Hanzo’s white robe is much too fitting. His hips sit outlined in thin fabric and wide shoulders strong and… exposed. As well as his collar bone, even with little strands of wet hair still sticking to fair skin. The cowboy almost finds it hard to speak—to _breathe._ Feels a little weird to be so damn immersed in just the idea of his existence that Jesse hasn’t noticed he’s been staring.

“…What?”

Even in a dimly lit room grey hues seem to sparkle, “I said, ‘Good morning.’ How was your trip?”

“It…” _come up with **something,**_ “was decent. Long. My old man just wanted to drag me to places I’ve never been in California.”

“Was it nice? I’ve never been.”

“You’d enjoy it… if you ever take my offer on a decent vacation.”

Hanzo gives a satisfied look, stepping past as he slid off the thin robe and adjusting the string at his pajama bottoms. Jesse could feel his throat dry watching Hanzo in silence—he’s back to staring again. The young boss’s tattoo was bright on pale skin, it sat twisted and decorated from his wrist to little spots of color splashed in speckles on his back. With honesty, there’s a touch of surprise lined in his thoughts—thought it’d would have been bigger, at least stretched down his back like they are in the movies… unless it wasn’t finished.

Quickly, the sight of the tattoo was shielded from him once Hanzo pulled a shirt over his head and plopped down beside Jesse with a little huff. He then leans forward with a quiet “Excuse me,” before lifting up a pant leg up and over what seemed to be a thin metal brace around the bottom of his knee. A little click comes, and then a gentle thump against the floor as the young Shimada sat back up, rubbing his knee as he did so.

But… There was nothing there…? Nothing after the knee… just a nub of _nothing._ Not even a stump of a calf, just… **_nothing._**

Awestruck, sat the outlaw. All these months, all those late night video calls, and he’s never noticed **_that._** There’s nothing there. And it can’t be recent, oh no. That would be impossible—or _improbable?_ He’s always noticed Hanzo’s little mannerisms of stretching his legs as he could, but this…? This was nothing he could have ever mentally prepared for. Never once had a negative thought scampered through his mind, yet every last word lingered with immense fascination. Hanzo is feared as not only a businessman, but also a fighter.

There’s a touch of jealousy there…

“Well, that happened.”

The sound of Hanzo’s voice fell silent as the interest in McCree rose with scattered questions and light wondering of **_‘How?’_** With temptation of little questions nagging at him, another part of him mindlessly led his hands wandering hands to _touch_ it. The skin was smooth and soft, aside from the ripples of old scars. Within that moment, he assumed that Hanzo would simply slap his hand away, yet…

Again.

**_Nothing._ **

“Can I help you?”

“I—This is rude, ain’t it? I mean… it _is,_ but…”

He wiggles that little nub, pushing Jesse’s hand away and swinging what bit of it back and forth… if it could be deemed as ‘swinging,’ that is. “It was a car accident. Really old.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“There wasn’t more to it?”

“I don’t think so. I was a kid when it happened.”

Jesse’s lips part for just a moment as if he were going to speak again, yet instead he shakes his head and tears his gaze away from Hanzo’s legs. Quietly, he watches as Hanzo leans back onto his hands, hazy silver gaze catching whiskey brown.

“I remember we made a bet to scare Nico, what do I get if I win?”

Jesse shakes his head, pressing his lips thin for a moment, “Shit, I thought y’ forgot about it, t’ be honest.”

“I did... I just did not think I’d have a way to frighten him.”

“And now y’ do?”

“Maybe…? I just have to... fuck with him.”

McCree tilted his head, removing his hat from his head, “How do you think this oughta work?”

That brought Hanzo back up, slumping forward with his fingers to his chin, “Well, what’s the saying—‘We’ll wing it,’ to an extent. If we let things fall into place on their own, he’ll crumble.”

Brows furrow with a slow turn of the cowboy’s head. At this point, Hanzo turns to him, bending his leg in and crossing the other over to focus his full attention on his friend. He still hasn’t pulled his hair back into that little blue ribbon he keeps neatly tied away into his hair—not that Jesse was complaining. The look almost kept the young dragon kind.

_Stop._

Jesse clears his throat, “S-so ‘bout that thing. Would pushing me up benefit anything?”

“Of course it will. Strength. Money. Respect. Information.” Hanzo pauses, “That makes it sound like I’m using you. I’m sorry, I’m not. I want you to get the power and honor you deserve. Either way, you will have a talent to keep you in a place of power and he might be rotting in a federal prison by time we’re finished… or dead. Wouldn’t mind that part… and apparently, neither would you.”

“You keep mentioning—wait... What? No. I ain’t tryin’ t’ kill Santiago.”

“Lie to me all you want, I can hear it in your voice.”

Jesse groans with a sound of defeat, ruffling his own hair and scrunching his lips into a slight pout. As much as he denies it, Hanzo isn’t wrong. Nothing could mask the fact that he would pay good money to watch Santiago be dragged away, kicking and screaming like the child that he was, and shoved away into a dark, dank hole somewhere down in some abyss. Unless the old man got shot—he wouldn’t mind seeing that with a tinge of happiness. The man has been nothing less of a jackass since he started. Alas, he simply shakes his head and allowing his brow to lower, “ ‘nother question: is that _really_ y’ going rate?”

A short sound comes from Hanzo, “Someone once bought me dinner because they were desperate. So, no it’s not… why? Are you looking?”

“Nah, but how much would it be—hypothetically?”

“You know a good place with a good bar and great barbeque?”

“Y-yeah?” Jesse’s a touch stunned at Hanzo’s response as if he had completely ignored the question given. Blinking a few times, a series of questioning emotions rifled through his head before he came back to reality. “…Barbeque?”

“Mhm. Or your choice on dinner and any gift you please.”

“You’re just screwin’ with me now.”

“Jesse, I would never.” There’s that smile of his, broad and ‘innocent,’ “I quite like being showered in gifts. The shinier the better, but really! Yes, it’s _that_ easy.”

“Fine. Fine.” McCree nods, stands from his corner of the bed, and waves off the idea that it only took a meal to pay off a hitman. Then again, he _was_ a Shimada. He probably didn’t need the money. With a sigh, he fixes himself and feels a pull instantly at his fingers. Hanzo’s hands, though calloused and rough, they were warm and eerily affectionate as he pulls Jesse back, lips pressed tight and brows furrowed. A part of him isn’t sure how to handle the sudden tame behavior. He’s gotten used to the mystique that Hanzo was a docile type of man who knew how to easily conceal what anger would bubble away at him just in favor to appease an ally. Yet here was a side of him that Jesse simply was never mentally prepared for.

Felt as if time had slowed for a moment. Within those few seconds, Jesse’s mind mystified at the sight of his friend. He’s… spellbound by the peaceful gaze locked onto him. Months and he’s never quite been able to lull the trickle of intruding thoughts that seemed to stem from nothing. Of course he’d joke and prod at Hanzo to pull a grin out of him to melt away his usual vacant expression, but that was just out of kindness—this was his _friend_ (unexpected, yes), but still one, nonetheless.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” Hanzo pats the spot, “I asked for you for a reason.”

“An’ that reason was…?”

He gestures to the door with finger wiggle, “Them. Can’t stand _them._ My old man sent them with me so I could get used to having guards around, but they do nothing but slow me down.”

Jesse crosses his arms, “An’ y’ need me for what?”

“To stay here and keep me company. That’s all I ask for… That and I can’t stand them watching over me to make sure I get some sleep.”

“Well… If y’ leg is feelin’ better, still wanna get some barbeque?” There’s that smile from Hanzo again. Jesse then grabs Hanzo’s hand in full, surprisingly almost engulfing his fingers, “It’d be the best way to get away from them and relax.”

_Let’s go._


End file.
